Aure Entuluva
by Angel Wings Rinoa Cathy-chan
Summary: (Second Version) A twenty year old Aragorn finds himself in the unfamiliar Wild. All seems dark as the night, then for the first time he reaches Bree...
1.

Aure Entuluva  
by: Angel Wings Rinoa (Cathy-chan)  
  
  
Ah, my very first LOTR fic. This is a short fanfic (Well, in my reckoning anyhow. '^^) that I felt like writing because Aragorn is such a cool character, and I don't think he gets a lot of recognition by himself. It's also sort of my insight on how he must have felt and thought during his first travels. It takes place years before the quest. It's completely referenced to the novel (or rather the Appendixes) and not the movie. This is just for my own entertainment really, but perchance that you do like the fic, thanks! I know how much I suck at grammar and spelling so I apologize in advance. Enjoy reading and please review it! I'd love to hear what you think.  
  
**Disclaimer:** C'mon....you've heard this before! I don't own Aragorn or Lord of the Rings, of course! It's by the talented JRR Tolkien. Like I said, just writing it 'cause I feel like writing a fanfic.  
  
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Chapter 1  
  
The parting had been bitter; the roads and forest were harsh and foreboding. Especially for a youth who knew naught of the lands beyond the northwestern region. In his score of years, he only treaded on familiar terrain, completely content as a simple, young man.   
Until Master Elrond told him otherwise.  
A simple man he no longer was, though still young according to his royal lineage. He would have a life span thrice that of ordinary, mortal men. He was but at the prelude of his lifetime. In that prelude, many were amazed. For with the teachings of his foster-brothers Elrohir and Elladan, he was wise with the wisdom of Elves. Beyond knowledge, he was also taught to wield arms; his skills with the sword were only surpassed by the greatest Elf-warriors among Rivendell. A trait the two brothers had no doubt came from his Numenorean blood.  
The blood of the men from the West. The Kings of old, Elrond had told him the day ere he departed to the Wild. As Elrohir and Elladan traveled with him on the fields near Bruinen, he wondered at the hasty change of his life with just his foster-father's words. Or it was not a change; rather the revelation of his destiny. Estel he was no longer. Nay, he was Aragorn son of Arathorn, a child to both Numenor and the Dunedan. Bound to the duty of his inherited kingship, he had but one choice: in the name of the house of Elendil and the valour of Men, he would reclaim the throne of Gondor, hence redeem the strength and nobility of his kin. In that respect, it would please him greatly to honour his family. And he had much desired to see Minas Tirith, the fabled White City of the South. Furthermore his people would unite as one glorious kingdom. But alas! the grand victory of his people could not truly be so without battle and hard trials. At whose trials and which battle he now pondered intensely.  
He felt the darkness of the road ahead. A growing darkness that gripped the frowning road without another bearing but to enter the dark. For Aragorn was snared to the Exiled Kings' damnation. A banishment of the Kings; their souls pleading atonement for their insubordination toward the Valar. The curse foreshadowed the blood of war, the heir of Isildur's final test. As if the Sun responded in fear of his dour thoughts, She hid Herself into the clouds floating near the horizon. '_Utulie'n Auta,_' he whispered breathlessly; a night that came to cover the light of his hopes.  
The path of Elrond's sons took them further west into Eriador. Thither they would depart from Aragorn to their own errands, leaving him to his perilous course. Before leaving Rivendell, many had tried to dissuade Aragorn from that course yet he chose to explore the Wild, gravely and resolutely. Danger of untrodden lands and dreadful creatures never laid heavy on his strong, determined heart. With his foster-brothers' company, they had thwarted the invasion of Sauron's orcs numerous times. It was loneliness that grew in his mind, though he told his burden to no one.  
Then it came to him. Solitude was his source of survival.  
For how long it was imperative even Elrond could not foretell. Perhaps years, decades or an era of relying on no one but himself. Given his circumstances, he doubted his chances of seeing Rivendell or Gilraen, his mother, ever again. Unanswerable questions swarmed his mind. Would he ever walk upon the fair valleys of Imladris once more? Was his road so fell that it was impossible to find hope?  
Would he ever see the fair twilight of his love's face again?  
Arwen Undomiel...The mere sight of her brought a word unspoken in eons of years into his mouth. Just as Beren, his ancestor, did long ago Aragorn called out to her crying out _Tinuviel!_ A name worthy to only the fairest maiden that treaded the lands of Arda. But even that, he deemed, could not equal her beauty with words. From the moment he saw her near the white birches, he loved Arwen daughter of Elrond. Neither her immortal race nor anyone, be he an Elf-king or Melkor himself, could sway his heart from her. He knew the dangers of his desires, yet he could not help but long for the warmth of her gaze, the enchantment of her voice and the sensuality of her touch. Most of all, he yearned for Arwen's hand in his: an undying bond from here and hence. It was a hopeless wish, however. It was inconceivable, especially during his people's darkest age. He was truthful enough to acknowledge the pain of reality. It was the reason why he did not speak of his love to her. In his mind and heart, he felt unworthy to openly put it to words.   
He repeatedly questioned himself of this matter. Was this not one of the cause of his plight? If he did not desire Elrond's chief treasure, would he not still be in Rivendell? Would he be less grim if he knew not of such overpowering love? It could very well be, he admitted and sighed inwardly. He was a foolish, young man in love.  
Moreover, he had to prove himself to not only her, but to Master Elrond as well. Beren son of Barahir had to snatch a Silmaril from Morgoth's crown to win Luthien's hand. How could he match such a feat to prove himself worthy to Elrond? No matter the price, his heart was still valiant. He would find a way. For if fate summoned him to an Elf's love, he would answer it resolutely. For Arwen's love, he vowed to turn against evil. By the blood of the noble in his veins, he vowed to see Sauron's hand crushed, freeing Middle-earth from his dark grasp. Perhaps then, and only then, could the lady's father approve of him.  
For days they strode through forests and hills until at last Aragorn and the two brothers arrived at the fences of Bree. A heavy fog covered the valley, and the Moon was high as they knocked on the gates. With the grey robes concealing their forms the gatekeeper casually let them in, thinking Aragorn's companions were wandering Men from abroad.  
Aragorn had seen men before when, ever and anon, they would stray near the borders of Rivendell, or when a lordly one visited the Elves, though it was his first time to see so many at once. Working men, horse riders and drunkards passed them by. All of them tending to their own affairs, seeming to Aragorn as if they were cold, unfamiliar animals. The uneasiness inside him felt no better when Elladan and Elrohir halted, and turned to him. Elrohir came to him and said, 'Here we must depart. We of Elrond's house bid you farewell. May Elbereth and the star of Earendil light thy path always!' With a smile he added, 'On friendlier lands in Imladris we may meet again, Estel.'  
'I cannot say I believe the same,' he answered gravely, 'yet my heart hopes to see you and your fair lands once more ere my fall.'  
Then Elladan placed his hand on Aragorn's shoulder and said, 'Hope oft comes unlooked-for in the darkest hours. In our eyes thou art still Estel a child of the Elves, and the brother we have loved and taught. Forget not our counsels. Thy test will be long, but if fulfilled highly wilt thou rise above thy sires. Fare thee well, Estel our brother!'  
With the broken sword of Narsil upheld honourably he said, 'By Elendil may parted brothers tread together again. _Namarie. _Elladan and Elrohir!'  
Then the two brothers took leave of Aragorn lovingly. It pained the young man to see the last traces of his elven-home walk away into the mist, but he had to seek his kinsmen. His mother had counselled him to search for the Rangers of the North, wandering men of the Dunedain. The next morn he would be on his way, following the path Gilraen had given him to the Ranger's hidden abode. Until then, he had to find shelter; the utter black of the night was suffocating his spirits and strength.  
  
_To be continued..._  
  
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**Note:**  
_here and hence_- 'this life to the next.' A sort of reference to Hamlet.  
  
**Author's Note: **This is the second version from the original one. I've edited and expanded a few things, like the information about the Dunedain's banishment from Numenore. If you're unfamiliar with that history, it's from the _Akallabeth_ (The Downfallen), a section from the book Silmarillion.


	2. 

**Aure Entuluva****  
**by: Angel Wings Rinoa (Cathy-chan)**  
  
Chapter 2**  
  
Everything seemed vague and eerie in the cover of the fog, but soon Aragorn found a small inn. If an inn it could be called for it was no different or better than the other houses at Bree, save a faded 'INN' sign. He was more fond of sleeping in the wilderness, but it was uncommonly cold. Despite the stale and incommodious condition of the lodge, it was far better than shivering on the damp grasses.  
The exterior of the inn foreshadowed the ambience of the interior. A thick redolent of beer came from the bar situated at the entrance. Half asleep bodies were slouched on the tables, tousled and musty. In contrast with the other men's clothing his plain, grey raiment looked immoderately fine. He felt hostile eyes bore down on him, clearly labeling him as a foreigner. If it were not for his hunger and weariness, he would have gladly avoided entering the inn.Warily, he sat on a chair at the far corner. His grey eyes scanned round. He saw mostly men drinking, eating and laughing while the inn's host scurried to and fro. A typical gathering of people after a hard day's toil. However, there was an armed group that caught his attention. They began a turbulence of loud yelling just for the sheer enjoyment of the disorder. While the host delivered him a pint of beer, he noted the direction of the men. They were heading toward his side of the room. He wanted to finish dinner quickly and without notice. But it was too late. Already three of the armed men were coming upon him. One of them with a wide girth sneered obnoxiously in front of him.  
'Ai, you! Whu be fancy-bloke like yoo be doin' hea?' the wide man bellowed. His voice was rough and slurred; whether from careless speech or drunkeness, Aragorn could not tell.  
Aragorn had no reason to answer him. He had no reply to slanderous, unintelligible words; nor did he want to provoke the large man by speaking. Fear never stirred him away from fights; it was honour itself that did. A duel without necessity, pride and chivalry shames a warrior. Strongly did he believe in the conviction. It was in this respect did he eventually learn to masterfully slip away from attention over many years. In the meantime, however, his skills in shadow and secrecy were impuissant.  
He sought for a clear exit, but found none. With a group of half a dozen, broad figures, he was easily encircled. The atmosphere thinned into a wire, ready to snap at a given moment. When the man heard no answer from Aragorn, he shouted, 'Ai, ye don' shoo awie Easterlings so hastily! We dun like faerie folk, 'specially a boy that dresses like 'em.' Then he slammed his fist on the table. The heads in the bar turned to the corner.  
Just by the reference of Elves to 'faerie folk' suggested the wide man would gladly receive Aragorn's hostility. The man had also nonchalantly identified his group. Rumours of Easterlings had spread quickly across the land. He was told that most of them gave their souls to Sauron, swearing fealty to the Dark Lord. He presumed all of Sauron's men were still lingering in the east, but evidently they were migrating to the northwest. Judging by the emblem of Sauron's Red-eye on the man's knife, there was no doubt a minion of Mordor was challenging him. Ironically the enemies he sought for found him. And not ironically, the necessity to fight was being shoved in front of his face.  
A loud yell accompanied a darting knife the next moment; the blade renting the skin on his temple. If it were not for his fast reflexes, the knife would have left more than a bloody line. Within seconds the Easterlings attacked him from all sides, leaving no space for Aragorn but to block with his armguard. The men were relentless and cruel, they cared not that the young man was unprepared for battle.  
Beyond the borders of the fight, none of whom witnessed it helped or spoke for Aragorn. Frozen and feeble-minded from fright, they could only stare, faithless that one man could defeat a group of blood-thirsty knaves. Never was it known that a single person could rebel against them, save King Elendil and his sons in the days of yore. They knew not that the King's very own heir was battling for his life before them.  
Soon Aragorn found himself atop the table. The Easterlings cackles became louder; soon they thought would they have the young man's life, but Arathorn's son was not easily usurped. In spite of the men's large and broad swords, he defied their blades, and received naught more than a few scratches and bruises. At this his assailants fumed with frustration.  
A hard kick from Aragorn brought three of them down in a tangle of yelling and flailing men. It was then that Aragorn found the chance to retaliate steel against steel. The broken sword, Narsil, was a great sword; wrought with the mightiest steel. But broken, it was completely useless. Thus Aragorn unsheathed another sword given to him. It sang valiantly in his hands. Each swing brought a wail of terror upon his enemies' ears.  
It was the Easterlings' turn to be caught unawares. Whilst three of them were still down, he jumped up and over them to wound the others still standing. He bore the appearance of a ruthless knight, his grey eyes aflame as he brought them down with a swift slash. It is said that, decades later in the very same town, he received the name 'Strider,' a dark wanderer with a renowned strength and agility. The staring audience was shocked. The Easterlings were more than shocked. Their audacity departed at the stab of Aragorn's sword to one of their breasts.  
Their laughing ceased. They had underestimated the young warrior.  
One by one, they were wounded or dead by Aragorn's deadly strength and blade. Those who did not perish scrambled to the exit. The one who was ridiculing him before cowered below his feet crying, 'No! Dun hurt me! I didn' do aneethin'!'  
An evil man he was, but a bad liar also. Aragorn knew him to be the cause of the brawl. He had pure loathing for Sauron and his vassals. Nevertheless, pity still stirred in his heart. He could not take a pleading man's life, not even from one who tried to take his mercilessly. 'Depart and never again come upon the valleys of the North,' he commanded icily. The man thought Aragorn had become a grand lord made of stone, as terrible and   
menacing as the Argonaths.  
At that, the stout man clumsily stood and ran. He dashed through the door with a bone-chilling scream. Tense silence harboured the air in the aftermath while Aragorn walked by the hushed crowd. They did not expect him to defeat half a dozen huge men, and because of it they wondered if he was a man at all. Some whispered 'An Elf-warrior from the West has come upon us!' Others replied 'Nay! He is a demon lord from the East! Look how terrible his sword and eyes are!' Many believed the latter to be true. Though none spoke their comments too loudly, lest their discourteous comments came to Aragorn. They retreated at the sight of his sword, glistening and dripping with blood.  
Aragorn cared little of the people's assumptions. His hunger and exhaustion peaked to its limits during the fight. The affair had left him with many cuts to mend, and very little time to heal them. Outside, the moon waxed bright and high, it was hours pass midnight. Only then did he felt the magnitude of his weariness. A throbbing pain had appeared at the side of his head; whether from fatigue or a hard blow from the melee, he could not tell. Beneath him, his legs well-nigh surrendered to its weakened muscles. In a lagging, but steady pace he approached the inn's host.  
'Y-Yes?' the host said meekly.  
'Do you have a room for me to stay?' Aragorn asked, disregarding the host's trembling voice and knees. Most likely he was despised and feared as much as the Easterlings, he thought. Even if the host did, he was too terrified to deny him.  
'T-There's a...an empty one...u-upstairs. Farthest one on the right.'  
Without another word, he walked briskly up the stairs and into the room. His tired body made the decision for him to drop down on the bed. Unexpectedly though, he found himself only staring at the ceiling. How could sleep prevail when so many troubles and ponderings came into mind? He had expected to arrive at his first town uneventfully. It was beyond his imaginings that he would be fighting for his life so soon. Entirely unforeseen by him, but could have been guessed and avoided. He blamed himself for knowing not the lands and customs of his people. Inexperience was his weakness, he knew the fact all too well. Obviously, any fool could tell he was a foreigner. Even his simplest clothes caused trouble. The mere colour of it, elven-grey, was enough to lure villains. Only Elves would wear the colour of his clothes.   
He sighed. At least one of his problems was not wholly complicated. He asked the host for any spare clothes. The host was still frightened out of his wits as he hastily went and came back with a bundle, then left as quickly as he had arrived. Inside the bundle was an assortment of traveling clothes. The attire was dark from soot and its own dusky-grey hue, parts of the tunic and jacket were unraveling. It was hard to tell the original colour of the dull leather boots and weather-beaten cloak. The garbs would become even more marred and stained over the next six decades.  
A grin played across his lips. It was perfect. Disguised as a vagrant, no one would look twice upon him. No doubt it could ameliorate his progress. Or rather he was truly a vagrant, not just disguised as one. An exiled king, shunned out of royalty and identity. In less than a sennight, he discovered his noble ancestry, then it was secreted from other ears save the wise Eldar, lest Sauron himself hear tidings of the hidden king. Scarce did Men knew of their own lores and oaths. The Dunedain, like his mother, kept the prophecies of their race close to their hearts. Only they would know the import of the Broken Sword and the Ring of Barahir.  
At this, Aragorn's mind turned to the ring upon his finger. His eyes were fixed on it as he recalled the stories of his forefathers. It was his ancestor's ring, a symbol of valour that was once unassailable now diminishing into naught but tales. The ring shone ever as a brilliant circle; emerald, gold and silver entwined in a beautiful, but menacing array of precious stone, flowers and two serpents. Wrought during the youth of Men, it was a reminder of the first alliance of Men and Elves. A reminder that once his people were feared and hated by Melkor, and were loved and praised by the Eldar. Even the Valar themselves praised men with blessed gifts during the zenith of the Numenorean Kings. It was Finrod Felagund's gift to Barahir in honour of him and his people's loyalty, friendship and courageous hearts. Strongly did Aragorn believe Men could still deem themselves worthy to receive praise. It was said that Men's hearts were the easiest to corrupt, yet he had faith in his people's strong spirit. His grey eyes flamed like the ring. Arnor and Gondor would rise again. Upon his name he swore that one day evil will quail with fear by his people's swords.  
  
_To be continued..._


	3. 

**Aure Entuluva**  
by: Angel Wings Rinoa (Cathy-chan)  
  
Chapter 3  
  
During the hours before dawn, Aragorn laid on the bed fully awake. Parts of his body were aching or stinging from the wounds he covered with disgarded cloths. Yet weariness kept not his attentive mind at bay. One could say his over-pondering was an incurable vexation. While staring at the ceiling, he allowed the thoughts to stray towards various matters. Some concerned what lay ahead of his journey. Many were questions interweaving into more questions. Were so many of his people as ruined as the Easterlings? Was there any honour, fellowship or loyalty left in them? Then he was reminded of the fellowship with his foster-brothers, and his bond with Elrond, the only father he remembered. A family he loved and respected. Terribly did he missed Rivendell and its people. Greatly did he want to look upon his mother's sad eyes, and tell her there was still hope. He longed to look upon Arwen; to declare his love.  
An inaudible curse escaped his mouth. The same vision of a white, feminine light amongst tall trees always came to him last. She had a smile of wondrous beauty that was ever graceful and shimmering. She was noble and innocent, yet with an air of a secret desire lingered in her gaze. He was besotted by the mere thought of her, yet he was troubled. For rekindling his lust would only worsen the torture of his predicament. Though admittedly, it was utterly futile to fight it. Why even consider trying? By the deep yearning of his heart, he was reminded of the elf-maiden's gentleness. The summer twilight's breath he yearned to feel in her kiss. In his being, he desired to know the warmth of her light. He was yanked out of the wonderful dream by a loud crash. Near the door he saw a girl hardly nigh a score of years kneeling on the floor. She had accidentally dropped a wooden bowl. Common courtesy prevented him from uttering another expletive.  
'P-Pardon me.' she apologized. 'I thought ye might want to wash your face before breaking your fast...I hope I didn't disturb you.' She looked puzzled at Aragorn's face. 'Is the clothes my father gave you too hot?'  
Quickly Aragorn turned his face away. He could not believe himself; he was actually caught blushing. 'Nay, it is sufficient,' he answered, trying hard to gain back his composure. Thankfully the girl thought his garbs burned him, and not by something else. If she knew what roused his redness, he would be thoroughly humiliated.  
Rays of dim light filled the room. Amazingly, a whole night thinking and staring at the ceiling had passed by him unnoticed. Dawn would break soon by the waking of the sun.  
After picking up the pieces of the bowl, the girl stepped a pace closer. 'I...saw how you fought those hooligans.' She paused to look down at her apron, fingering it shakily. 'I thought it was rather heroic of you, even if...if everybody else said you were a bad person. Me father doesn't like to-dos an' all in his inn, b-but 'twas darn about time someone did something about The Six Men-orcs.'  
He smiled kindly. At least one person in Bree did not despise him. Her comment had also revealed something else less comforting. It was not the first time Easterlings had harassed the town. In fact they had notoriously received a title within Bree. Concerned by this revelation, he asked, 'What are their usual businesses with the town?'  
She shrugged. 'Oh them? This and that. Mostly bullying a few folks for some ill-deserved luxury or wealth...Sometimes they might stay and eat at our inn for free or hassle a few people. They like picking on Hobbits the most.'  
'Hobbits?' he asked, perplexed.  
'Halflings. Lil' People that sometimes go to Bree. Hardly the size of children and pretty weak.' Then solemnly she added, 'But that doesn't seem to stop them from hurting Hobbits. Poor things.' She shrugged again. 'But that's about it, nothing more.'  
He was surprised at her casually speaking of it. To her it was a common occurrence. To him it emphasized the lowest extent of Sauron's thralls; tormenting smaller, weaker people for their own fell pleasures verily apalled him. 'For how long had they done this?' His voice was stern, veiling any trace of emotion. The girl was taken aback by the intensity of his gaze.  
'Well...f-for about a time before I was born,' she mumbled hastily.  
But Aragorn heard it completely. In other words: there was no telling how many years exactly, but clearly for many a year beyond the girl's age. This was ill news. He had not guessed the enormity of the land's peril. How could a populated town let themselves be conquered by a few Easterlings?  
'Oh, but none had been killed! 'Tis just a few punches and yelling,' she countered when she saw Aragorn's shocked expression. 'Me father thought you were just as bad as them. Saying "'Tis another one of their kind. Maybe even their master. I be no welcoming some dark lord in my inn, jus' as sure as the town's name be Bree!" but I know he's wrong. I was so sure you're an Elf-warrior.' All manner of coyness left her. Staring directly at his eyes she said, 'You're much too handsome like an elf to be like them.' Then was embarrassed by her own implying tone.  
Aragorn was abashed as well. Her face glowed from flushing admiration. It wondered him to find a girl shyly glancing at him affectionately with the tattered raiment he now wore. He thought perhaps it was because of the elven hint in his mannerism. It was a weak assumption, however, for he was ignorant of the females' refined passion. Unknowingly to him, it was his whole figure that caught her entranced. He was unaware that his stern face and prominent height was the likeness to a powerful yet winsome lord.  
The girl became suddenly tense at the sight of arrows wailing pass the open window. An unnumbered lot of them flew at every direction, one grazing the girl's skin. She froze in panic at the spot, even with the long gash that trickled blood on her leg. In a rapid movement, Aragorn evaded an arrow headed for his chest, grabbed her wrist and opened the door. Then three spears with furious mercenaries confronted them at the flight of stairs. He had to fend off broad men away from the girl, shoving them down the stairs for them to descend. To-do, as the girl put it, was an understatement at the next events. With the men tumbling, crashing, flying or every vicious momentum contacting the tables and customers, it was adequate to send the host in tremors of fury. He would have tried murdering Aragorn too, if granted the courage and wits to do so. His anger fared worse at a glimpse of his daughter pursuing the turmoil's catalyst.  
Knives with the Red-eye lunged at Aragorn, marking the same attackers from the previous night. Only now it felt as if thrice more wanted him dead. Yelling and profanity came from one direction; crashing and screaming from another. Aragorn was only given one choice: to fly out of the inn as fast as his feet could muster. Four tables and a mass of bodies scattered the ground by the time he had thrust through the inn's door. Remarkably the girl, with a painful cut on her leg, followed him outside.  
The fresh air was a welcome to Aragorn's lungs. He was relieved at the open space away from blades; a good number of them had marred his flesh. But his relief was instantly taken away by an all too familiar girth of an Easterling. His true cowardly self lay hidden in a smug expression and a pack of armed men. 'Hail the mighty, faerie boy!' he mocked, bowing over theatrically; his men responded in a roar of laughter. 'Ye don't look so almighty now, do ye? I told ye, a bloody youngster can't shoo awie Easterlings so easily. Right, men?' The mass responded with grunts and upraised arms. The wide man walked forward, intentionally neglecting his shameful defeat the night before. On the tips of his toes, he glared fiendishly at Aragorn. His putrid stench burned on the young man's chin. 'Feelin' scared, boy?' A fouler smell came from his breath.  
No fear besetted Aragorn's stance. Truthfully he was tempted to smirk at the shorter man's attempt of threats. The man began mocking and taunting him, buying time for Aragorn to plan his next moves. Force and physical brute would not win at this dilemma, therefore a brusque departure was necessary. But how? He was caught betwixt a semi-circle of angry faces and an unfriendly inn; a very fragile predicament that could still worsen. And in addition to it, an innocent girl was caught with him. The wide man became well aware of the girl's shaking figure. He took sick pleasure in tormenting fragile creatures, particularly females. 'Look 'ere. Has the faerie boy got himself a lil' toy to play with?' The girl shuddered at his vulgar gestures and groping.  
Aragorn's sudden rage overthrew all thoughts of a plan. Death marked the Easterling's head by his cold eyes. In a blur, he unleashed his sword upon the man's lecherous hand; cutting the whole hand asunder along with his forearm. Even in the man's throes, he was not spared from the young warrior's glare. His eyes burned and punished like Narsil's silver shards. The other Easterlings were too shocked to help their leader. 'Spare me!' he cried, kneeling and whimpering on the soil. But forgiveness was seldom given twice.  
'What have you done to be spared? Answer me! Lest mercy and pity fails, and I bestow your final doom.' His voice reverberated, crushing the man's form. 'Mercy is a word galled at thy tongue who wouldst violate a lady.'  
'I didn' mean to hurt her! I swear!' he pleaded. Desperately, his voice changed into a squeaked warning. 'An' what makes ye think ye'd still win!? My men can hew yer neck off! What say ye now, faerie boy?'  
The Easterlings hesitated a moment before obeying him. Slowly they pointed their blades at Aragorn. Astoundingly, a score of men doubted themselves before one man. Yet to them Isildur's heir was a man no longer, but a terrible phantom of the Kings of the West. His full stature and valour held true in his eyes. His youthful age did nothing to mask his real form. However the Easterlings thought still to foolishly quell him by the ruin of many deadly arms.  
'Any hewing and you will answer to us,' a voice answered behind them.  
Turning about the Easterlings found a company of hooded riders. The arriving group with swords easily outnumbered their score. A leader strode forward with his sturdy horse. 'For any threat to Sauron's army is a friend of the Rangers.'  
Fate had been spun around again, Aragorn delightedly thought. Only this time, the positive side of his search, instead of the negative one, had found him. The Rangers of the North. His mother's kinsmen appeared unlooked-for. He grinned. Indeed the words of Elladan be true.  
The Easterlings could stand no more of mysterious, intimidating foes. Like a departing breeze of foul odour, their strong structure weakened and dissipated, leaving only one on his knees. Terrified and in pain, the wide man could not follow his men.  
A quick gesture from the Ranger's captain lowered the riders' swords. He dismounted and approached, giving the wide man a disgusted glance. 'What punishment do you wish for this lowly vassal?' he asked Aragorn.  
'He is of no concern to me.' Aragorn turned to the sobbing man. 'Get thee gone, thrall. Go back to whence thou came.' In a scramble of pudgy feet, Aragorn watched the wide man flee again with a scream. A sundered, bleeding arm was dragged at his side. Then Aragorn gallantly lowered his weapon, placed his hand upon his heart and said, 'Hail the Dunedain of Arnor!'  
'So a young one from afar knows of us.' The Ranger uncovered his hood. He had the dark hair and strong height of the Men from the North. 'Unfold yourself, the one who brought terror at a score of Easterlings, a feat only known to the Kings from our tales.'  
'Of my true name I cannot reveal openly, and I am no figure of your legends,' Aragorn replied. 'Though I can speak of this: Gilraen my mother had counselled me to search for the Rangers of the North. Of whom I give my allegiance and, perhaps, good tidings from Men afar.'  
'We know of the Lady Gilraen,' the leader said. 'Yet our trust and allegiance cannot be given by mere words. I desire to know more of you and your errand.'  
'Nay, it is no errand I bear.' Aragorn's eyes darkened into smoke and hidden fire. 'Fate has brought me upon the northern lands. To seek peril and the crown of once united kingdoms. My path seeks the Dark Lord's demise and to free the lands of Middle-earth.'  
The leader and his riders stilled with wonder. It was then they saw the emerald and silver proof upon his finger. History and ancestry gave them no doubt or lies. Their last light against evil stood before them with a staid expression. The girl too was shocked. He was no Elf-warrior or demon lord, but someone as mighty. Or perhaps even more so, and more crucial than they.  
Hope was a cold lord, covered with black and blood.  
'An ill path is upon you,' the leader finally spoke after a silence. Then to the girl's astonishment, he knelt and kissed Aragorn's hand. 'But we will tread this path with you, my lord. What dost thou desire of the Rangers?'  
'To stand and hail me no more.' Aragorn pulled the man to his feet and shook his head. 'I am not worthy of your praise and love. I only ask for your guidance, and in return, I offer to you my service.'  
His humility shocked them all. Before them was a man lowering himself after surviving an onslaught of Easterlings; and breaking their will in the process. Although he was not modest for the sake of it; sincerely did he thought of himself undeserving.  
The leader laughed merrily and said, 'Truly you have a great heart, young warrior. Gladly will we accept your friendship. Come! You will learn plenty from the wandering Rangers. Of this land and many others we will teach and tread with you.' Undoubtedly true for decades of accompanying the Rangers taught Aragorn the ways of the land and his people, both good and evil.  
He was given a steed to ride hence to Arnor, the region above Eriador. The girl called out to him as he was about to mount. She was disheveled and covered with mud from the encounter, yet she beamed happily to him saying, 'I wish you good speed! I am glad to have met you. My only regret is not knowing your name.' Shyly she curtsied. 'I don't think I've told you mine. 'Tis Irieth.'  
Aragorn smiled warmly. 'I thank you greatly for your kindness.'  
Irieth was startled as he knelt down and bound her injury with a torn cloth. Rising he bowed his head and said, 'I bid you farewell, Lady Irieth.'  
Her smile grew. Never in her life had a man called her a lady. 'T-Thank you...f-for saving my life...and everything.' Softly, Irieth placed her hand on his face and whispered, 'You will free Middle-earth. You're no Elf. You're the giver of hope. Just as you've given hope to this town.' She giggled at his look of disbelief. ' 'Tis quite true! I think Easterlings will be too scared of you to bother Bree again.'  
Aragorn laughed heartily, enjoying a freedom he had not felt since leaving Rivendell. The comfort of the act brightened his eyes into rich silver. Irieth's simple show of gratitude had turned him away from despondency. Seeing Irieth's gentle bearing, his path seemed less discouraging. Not all of Middle-earth was bound with deception, cruelty and malice. Underneath its dark clouds, sun-lit hearts like Irieth's do loving, kind deeds.  
Ere Aragorn's departure, Irieth gave him a fond embrace, bidding him to remember her and her little town. And he promised to one day return to Bree. She waved a cheerful goodbye as he and the riders passed the gates. Ahead many perils and tests lie waiting for Aragorn to either conquer or fail. On that path, hardship and confrontation against his lineage, courage as well as himself as a man awaited every turn. Yet, to his pleasant surprise, the roads were no longer frowning at him. A breathtaking landscape of lush green fields, tall mountains, and forests, spreading far beyond the horizon, greeted him. Loneliness were in them no longer. He felt rhythms of life in the land and sky he beheld. Any sense he had the previous night of despair disappeared at the sight of the Sun. Brightly She shone above the mountains, rejoicing the land and skies with iridescent gold with ribbons of orange and red. She smiled upon Aragorn, reassuring him that his trials could not last forever. One day, the night would vanish from the East, and a dark lord's throne would dwell there no more. And all peoples of Middle-earth would see the rising of a new day.  
'_Aure entuluva_,' he whispered. Day will come again.  
  
**The End**  
  
**Author's Note: **Well, what did you think? There's more than one reference to Silmarillion in this fanfic, especially from the tale of Beren and Luthien. If you've read that book by the same author, you'd know Melkor and Morgoth is the same evil Vala. The phrases 'Utulie'n Auta (Night has come)' and 'Aure Entuluva (Day will come again)' are also from the same book. I believe it's Sindarin and was spoken by Hurin as he fought seventy orcs during the war of "Unnumbered Tears". I also tried writing this in the way LOTR was done, keeping true to the archaic language...well, to the best of my knowledge and ability anyway (sorry, I didn't graduate from Tolkien's Anglo Saxon class :P). This was one of those absolutely rare times I had to research Middle-earth's history, and be really mindful of my diction! By the way, the inn in this story is not 'Prancing Pony.' Nor was the host's name Barliman Butterbur. I'm pretty sure Aragorn is older than the bar and Butterbur. Again, thank you for reading and your comments are much appreciated!


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